e c l e c t i c a
s p o t l i g h t a u t h o r
Eric Bosse
e c l e c t i c a
s p o t l i g h t a u t h o r
Eric Bosse
(These are excerpts—click on the title to view the whole piece!)
Jerusha tips back in her chair. She crosses her arms over her breasts. She looks good in fruit-print stretch pants and black tank top, but I wouldn't touch her with rubber gloves the way she's been acting this week.
"You're twelve years old, Benny. The holocaust happened fifty years ago, halfway across the world." She pushed a box of Wheaties across the table. "You're not even Jewish. Now eat some cereal."
"Here's the deal, Mom. Talk about me as if I died last week. You've got two minutes."
She set her book down on the patio and raised her eyebrows at me. "You always have to stir the poop, don't you?"
